


booty butt butt booty butt

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, New York Rangers, Snowballing, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a while. </p>
<p>(Complaints about the title can be sent directly to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/pseuds/cathybites">Cathybites</a>, as she dictated the naming of this work.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	booty butt butt booty butt

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, someone suggest a better title. This is just embarrassing. 
> 
> Original posted to LJ like...2009? 2010? Who knows.

It's been weeks.

They've been flying back and forth across the country for weeks, game after game, and really, it's exactly the same push-and-pull as usual. But this time, these weeks, Mats has to deal with seeing and breathing and not-quite-touching Henke every day and not being able to do a _damn thing_ to him.

He darts in under Dan's arm as the team shoulders and jostles its way into the locker room after a morning practice, splays his stuff all over the bench in the near right corner which has the most unobtrusive view of the room, and tries not to get caught sneaking glances at Henke when he starts stripping out of his bulky gear.

He accomplishes the inconspicuous part of this plan for about five minutes, a minute after which Sean walks by, double-takes, and surreptitiously elbows Mats in the kidneys. Sean gives him a pointedly dry stare, and Mats jolts back into himself, realizing his hands have stilled as he stares a little too obviously in Henke's direction. He immediately ducks his head in the guise of carefully unlacing his skates. He's blushing, half from Henke stripping off the last of his gear and half from Sean catching him ogle their goalie when he's half-naked.

Sean rolls his eyes and says something under his breath that Mats doesn't catch. His quick cuff to Mats' head is light, though. Sean is weird with his affection. But whatever – he's already wandering off to go gossip with Aaron about whatever it is they giggle about over by their lockers.

When Mats glances up again, Henke is looking right at him from across the small room. He's already dressed, jeans and a t-shirt thrown on, though obviously still unshowered.

He ambles up to Mats' bench, eyes intent and voice already lowered. “There's showers at the hotel. We've got an hour. Come back with me.”

Mats nods quickly, tugging his gear off with renewed vigor. He's shimmying back into his jeans when he remembers Henke's been standing there, just a few feet away, this whole time. He freezes and sneaks a sideways glance at him, oddly self-conscious. His dick doesn't seem to share the unexpected modesty when he gets a look at Henke – who's standing motionless, one hand curled tight into a fist, jaw set and eyes heavy-lidded - as it jerks obviously, almost painfully, in his thin shorts.

He draws the jeans the rest of the way up, but can't resist palming his cock quickly, adjusting it and giving it a subtle squeeze at the same time. He goes a little wobbly with how good even that swift touch feels, but Henke chooses that moment to throw his shirt at Mats' head. The folds of fabric settle over Mats' head and obscure his vision momentarily, but he still hears (feels, smells, oh god) Henke lean in close and hiss, “When you're done touching yourself instead of me, I'll be waiting back at the hotel.”

He stalks off before Mats can finish pulling the shirt over his head, then hop awkwardly into his shoes, following Henke's long strides down the hallway as fast as he can.  


  


*

He still manages to miss the ride Henke gets back to the hotel, catches his own in a cab about ten minutes later. It's still too long, and he feels like he's going to jitter out of his skin, knowing how close he is to being able to touch Henke again. Not just the stupid, casual little things they've been making do with – the claps on the back (it skates down the spine, counts vertebrae by fingertip before sliding into the deep curve of the back and disappearing), the friendly arms around shoulders (palms against necks and nails digging into thick muscles before getting jostled off), knees knocking companionably together (under the table, feet twining around legs and digging into the long line of calves)...

He gets to touch, run both hands flat from wrist to finger pads across Henke's body and map their progress with his eyes, feel Henke's body flush against him and there's only five more minutes to the hotel, or he'd be touching himself again here in the vehicle. His whole body flushes with anticipatory heat and he has to swallow hard against the embarrassing noise building up from his throat. 

Mats shifts in his seat, curls his small body down around itself and wills this stoplight to change to green, already.  


  


*

The elevator up to the floor on which Henke's room is settles with a bump, and Mats bites his lip ruthlessly as it jars his dick up against the firm denim over his fly. He's uncomfortably hard at this point, and it's ridiculous what just thinking about being able to simply waltz into Henke's room and find himself in bed with him moments later does to him. He swears and knocks his forehead softly against the cool metal of the elevator wall before exiting. 

He doesn't have a room-key, and he only hesitates a fraction of a second before knocking on Henke's door.

It's yanked open, and Mats is summarily yanked inside. Henke's hair is disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it compulsively, his shirt's already off again and his jeans have a button undone.

Mats registers this in the split-second it takes for Henke to shift his grip around Mats' upper arm, turn him about and shove him forward. Mats slams face-first into the rough plaster of the wall by the door frame. Henke steps in behind him, his chest to Mats' back and one of Henke's legs on either side of Mats' hips. Mats mouth drops open at the manhandling, at all the brilliantly hot new _contact_. When Henke presses in, pushes him onto his tiptoes with the pressure, Mats delirious moan sounds straight into the plaster. He feels fantastically helpless, doesn't think he'll ever be used to how overwhelmingly goddamn perfect it is with Henke. Fuck, he can't even move. He _loves_ it.

There's no room for his dick to get any friction. Henke's holding both of Mats' arms behind his back, crossed them neatly at the wrists and holds the delicate bones there in one hand between their bodies, at the small of Mats' back. The position pins Mats in place perfectly, and he's gasping in air at the feel of it, being held immobile and defenseless, hard and aching and completely in someone else's control.

He moans, an involuntarily slutty sound, and feels Henke respond, shift in closer. A moment later, he feels a tickle on his neck where Henke's hair precedes his lips, moving over Mats' neck intently. Henke noses up under Mats' jawline while Mats shivers against the wall, light-headed and eyes screwed helplessly shut.

“Kept me waiting,” Henke says, voice low. He rolls his hips forward against Mats' ass, and it's the worst kind of punishment to be unable to rock back into it. He does it again and Mats trembles, pants out more wet breathes against the wall. He couldn't answer if he wanted toL right now, all that's in his mind is the need for Henke to slide his hand down into Mats' pants. His dick is leaking in his boxers, precome spurting wet and heavy, nearly in rhythm with Mats' heaving breaths. It soaks the cotton, and Mats can't stop the noises he makes whenever the head skates against the wet fabric.

Henke doesn't make a move toward touching Mats, but he rubs the stubble on his cheek against the sensitive skin on the nape of Mats' neck. Mats strains to hear him, but still misses it when Henke turns his head and murmurs right into the curve of Mats' shoulder.

His skin knows the feel of Henke's mouth, and his hips try to thrust up against the wall, instinctive and needy and - utterly useless.

On the other side of the door, the sound of the elevator doors pinging open filter in. Voices. Someone laughs. Footsteps pass by their room as Henke lapses into soft Swedish, laving words into the line of Mats' jaw. It would be tender in any other scenario, if Henke wasn't pressed full-length into Mats to keep him trapped face-first against a wall, if Mats wasn't nearly choking on his own breath and spit with every move Henke made.

“Don't keep me waiting,” Henke prompts, and then - and then he _bites_ the lean, straining tendon connecting Mats' neck to his shoulder, digs his teeth in and worries the skin. Mats can't help it – he cries out, shocked as he jerks back into Henke and comes unexpectedly all over the inside of his pants, dick pulsing where it's pressed up tight against the wall.

Henke hums his approval as Mats comes down from it, sensitive and trembling. Before Mats can register the movement, Henke's flipped him around and slammed him back in place against the wall, facing Henke now. Mats sags against the wall, blinking up at Henke. He's still making sounds in his throat from his orgasm, a constant, deep kind of moan that gets louder when Henke drags his hands down Mats' sides, and finally, finally undoes the button and fly on Mats' jeans to dip his hands inside.

Henke doesn't touch his softening cock, though. He skates right past it to push Mats' jeans down his thighs and hook his fingers in the waistband of Mats' boxers. He pulls the elastic away from Mats' stomach, gaze sharp on his own actions, the straining muscle of Mats' belly under his hand, and he chuckles. There's no humor in it, just Henke's particularly effective brand of banked heat. Mats' head still slams into the wall behind him when Henke looks up, favors him with that same hot smile, and - jesus, drags his fingers through the mess Mats' made of his boxers.

“Messy boy,” he comments. Mats can't handle that, not coming out of Henke's mouth, not so soon after he just lost it, untouched, with Henke's weight pinning him firmly in place up against a goddamn wall. His dick twitches, a near-painful thing right now, and he sets his jaw.

Henke's still smiling at him, all teeth. There's a flush on his cheeks, lighting up his tan from inside, blue eyes darker than usual.

Mats can't not be a competitive little shit, though. So he doesn't pretend indifference; he holds eye contact with Henke, then lets the wide, challenging grin that wants out take over his face. He lets his hips go loose in Henke's grip. 

"Henke?," he says, voice ragged and shamelessly needy. He smirks before schooling his face in the most submissive, wide-eyed expression he can manage. "Henke, _please_. Please?"

It has the desired effect. Henke's gaze goes narrow and hot. He knows Mats is hamming it up and he obviously doesn't care. Frankly, Mats isn't sure his little performance was entirely for show, himself. And then he's not thinking about it at _all_ as Henke huffs a breath through his nose, says, "You little fucking --" in Swedish before he slams a hand against the wall to the right of Mats' head, inches away. He's conjured up a bottle of lube from somewhere the next second – his pocket, Mats guesses. Henke's free hand tugs Mats' boxers down to meet his jeans around his knees, slides back up to touch lightly at Mats' balls, further back, and Mats' eyes roll back in his head, breathing in hard bursts, trying not to let it show how completely mindless he gets with Henke's hands all over him.

Henke's fingers draw back for a moment, and Mats opens his eyes again in time to see him run his palm over the line of his own cock, still pushing up against the jeans he's still wearing, what the fuck? - but Henke flips open the cap to the lube a moment later, squirting it one-handed all over his first two fingers. He's a goalie through and through, and his hand is dexterous and strong when he reaches it down between Mats' legs.

He doesn't go for two right away. Mats wishes he would.

Instead, he makes Mats squirm with a knuckle pressed up against the thin skin, rubbing lightly around and around until Mats is wriggling in his grip, instinctively trying to bear down against nothing, trying to get Henke to press in. He even feints a grab at Henke's wrist to shove them in himself. He's rebuffed easily and quickly, Henke slanting a narrow warning glare at him.

Mats pays for it, too. Henke teases him even more as punishment, slipping his fingers in shallowly and dragging them back out, tracing the rim in light, tortuous little circles, working up to three fingers over the course of what feels like hours to Mats. He's hard again by the time Henke stops fucking around and slams three fingers, wet and blunt, into Mats. It wrenches a sob out of him.

Mats has had his eyes closed, head thrown back against the wall, since Henke first crooked his fingers just right inside him, but his knees are about to give way. He can feel his muscles shaking, means to say something before he falls on his ass, but Henke jerks all three fingers up against his prostate and his brain goes bright and empty at the same time his legs buckle.

He doesn't hit the floor and he doesn't slide down the wall – Henke removes his fingers and grabs him around the hips at the last moment, swift reflexes honed and smooth, hoisting Mats up further along the wall. Mats gets a hand up on Henke's shoulder for balance and blinks, a little disoriented. Henke's eyes are flaring as he readjusts to their new position, hot and pleased like the idea of hauling Mats up to fuck him against the wall was involuntary, like this is a new and unexpected thing to find Mats suddenly settled on his palms, balanced against just plaster and Henke's own body.

He can marvel at it later, Mats decides, and goes to push the jeans hanging low on Henke's hips out of the way. He misses having Henke's fingers in him, feels wet and stretched and pointlessly empty, and he frowns. His fingers curl possessively around Henke's cock when he gets the jeans down and out of the picture, and Henke groans, dropping his head to his chest and rolling his hips into Mats' hand as much as he can.

Mats rolls his eyes and strokes once (he can't help it, it fits in his hand so perfectly it's a little fascinating), then squeezes hard to get Henke's attention. When Henke lifts his head to look at him, bleary and glazed, Mats can't quite quash the snarl that lifts his lips. “ _Henke_.” He strokes again, hard and meaningful. “ _Now_.”

Henke doesn't respond for a moment, eyes glazed and his hips still trying to work into Mats' hand, and Mats thinks about trying to wriggle out of his grip to take care of himself before he comes just watching Henke _trying_ to get off – but it's only seconds, and the next second, Henke's there and aware and slamming Mats back with one hand, bracing and bracketing him fully against the wall as he takes his own dick in hand (and god, that's just as perfect as Mats' fingers around it; Mats takes note of it for another time).

After three fingers, Henke slides in easily, grinds his teeth together as he tries not to yell. Mats watches his face, rapt, and doesn't even try to hold back all the little sounds that fly out of his own mouth as Henke finds his footing and shifts Mats to a slightly different position. It shoves Henke's dick right up against his prostate, and oh, oh - Mats digs his nails hard into the bunched muscle of Henke's shoulder when Henke starts to _move_.

Mats can't do much but take it, shuddering violently with each thrust and feeling the sweat prickling all along his back slide into the rough nubs of plaster. The terrain of the wall is abrasive against his skin, but the tiny spikes of pain every time he's pushed up and back are nothing compared to how it feels to have Henke sending him hurtling to his second orgasm within an hour. Jesus. He's whining, legs locked behind Henke at the ankles, fingers leaving bruises and little crescent-moon marks in the meat of both Henke's shoulders. 

Henke isn't giving him any room to breathe, even grins in strained delight whenever Mats makes a new and different sound, a gasp or a cry, and Mats is dazedly amazed this has lasted as long as it has. Even as that thought flits across his mind, Henke does something, a tiny shift in position or momentum, and his cock drags achingly over the bright flare of Mats' prostate. Everything lights up for a second, and then Mats is arching up towards Henke and coming in intense, jerky bursts that smear across Henke's chest, one enthusiastic pulse reaching just under his chin.

Henke stills momentarily at it, closes his eyes briefly before opening them to look down at himself. There are streaks running down his flat belly, up his chest and over one nipple. Mats slumps into his hands and the wall in a drunken, overwhelmed haze, watches him work his jaw experimentally, too. Something about that picture breaks something in Mats' already-made-useless brain, the smooth flex of Henke's skin under the sheen of Mats' own come, oh, oh, fuck - and before he's even aware of what he's doing, he pushes up off the wall as best he can, leaning in to lick a broad stripe of his come off of Henke's chin.

Henke nearly kills him when he bursts into motion again at that, presses close enough to smear the come on his chest all over Mats', and covers Mats' mouth with his before Mats has a chance to swallow. Mats can barely handle it, all too much right after he just came, but he holds on, lets Henke lick come out of his mouth and isn't even embarrassed at his own whimper when Henke guides Mats' mouth back to his throat, encouraging. He swipes his tongue across another mouthful, groaning at the dirty, sticky feel of it against his teeth before Henke's demanding a taste again. His lips bump awkwardly against Mats' open ones as his thrusts start going jerky and inconsistent. He's close, and Mats lifts an unsteady hand to fist in Henke's hair, traps Henke's come-covered tongue with his own, and sucks on it like it's a piece of chocolate. He feels the sound Henke makes when he comes, muffled by wet lips and messy tongues, and feels the jerk of Henke's hips into his, thinks he's going to bruise. It's the last thing he cares about right now.  


  


*

They don't untangle for a few minutes. Their kisses are still dirty, still tasting of come, but they're down-shifted to a slow burn, trading and expanding aftershocks and afterglow. 

Mats legs are cramped when he finally tries to stand. Henke laughs at him, makes a stupid crack under his breath about Bambi learning to walk, but steadies him just as quickly when he starts to list, eyes intent. Mats stays there, stretching the cramps out, holding onto Henke's wrist for balance, and breathing.  



End file.
